


Midnight Set (Closing Time)

by TellMeNoAgain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28159524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Tony Stark is the best goddamn bartender in New York, and yeah, he's not interested in working anywhere but his small, hole-in-the-wall live-music dive bar.  He knows the bar's a little rough around the edges and he doesn't give a flying fuck. It suits him- he's more than a little rough around the edges, too.Too rough for the sweet young thing that just walked in.Too bad that sweet thing isn't just here for the midnight set, huh?
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 227
Collections: Bar AU





	Midnight Set (Closing Time)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpiderBeans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiderBeans/gifts).



> First of all, THANK YOU SPIDERBEANS- look what you prompted into creation!
> 
> Secondly, to all my TW Buddies on the WB Discord server, your constant support and cheering have made this- and so many other-fics possible, and I love you ALL so much!
> 
> Thirdly, jf4m and mindwiped are the best betas in the multiverse and I will literally cut anyone who says differently.
> 
> All remaining inconsistencies, mistakes, and stubborn awkward phrasings are mine because sometimes you write something for yourself, and you don't really care if other people get the joke.

“Oh, shit, look what just got caught at ID,” mutters Nat, elbowing both Tony and Clint at the POS station. Their heads whip up as she taps through screens with nimble fingers. Clint lets out a long, low whistle. “Shhhhiiiiit,” he drawls, shaking his head and shoving Nat out of the way as the printer begins to spit out her receipts. “He’s gonna get eaten alive. He looks _twelve_ , what is Barnes doing?”

Tony narrows his eyes as the kid- well, clearly an adult, no ID was good enough to get past Barnes, the jerk was ex-ATF. “Another twink down the hatch,” he mutters, watching the usual suspects’ heads turn as the kid makes his way to the bar. “Blood in the water,” he tells Steve, as the bouncer walks by, nodding at the kid.

Steve rolls his eyes, and says firmly, “Every man has a right to wet his whistle, Stark.”

“You’re the man with a plan, better plan for that trainwreck,” quips Tony, tapping through the system and frowning, wondering if he should nest the tables differently the next time he re-programs it.

“They know to behave,” Steve tells him, jaw jutting out in that infuriating way he had. Tony glances down the bar and runs some quick calculations. If he gets the tab to Rumlow and doesn’t stop to flirt, the man and his group will vacate the three stools in Tony’s section very quickly, figuring the show's over, and that will put Rhodey at the bar, and if he puts Rhodey’s drink at the left stool, that will put Rhodey in position to play helicopter for the kid. _Done. Do it_ , he tells himself, grabbing the receipts and sliding them into the black folder.

“Gentleman,” he announces to the Rumlow section, dropping the ticket in front of Rumlow, who loves to play Big Man and buy for his guys on payday, “it has been a fucking delight to hear all of your completely baffling predictions for the coming hockey season, but now I have to insist you get your blockheads out of here and to some bar where they don’t care how wrong you are.”

All five men laugh and give him shit, but he's already swinging away. He’s spent plenty of time shooting shit with them and it's a Saturday with a live band going on in a half-hour. They won’t want to hang around, anyway, with the Happy Hour die-hard crowd fading away, slowly being replaced with the pre-game Saturday Show crowd.

He mixes five drinks further down the section for the second tier standing-room-only just-at-the-bar-to-get-a-drink crowd, opening tabs and memorizing names, trying to tag faces to orders although it's early in the night.

Tony Stark is the best damn bartender in New York, and he knows it, and everyone in this fucking bar knows it- or would know it by the end of the night. And no one even really knows the half of it.

“Boss’s in her box,” mutters Nat, smiling at the bachelorette party in her section as they take a round of shots. Tony can see the dollar signs in her eyes and the tension in her mouth. Pepper and Nat have a love-hate-love thing going on, and if they’d just fuck it out, already, Tony’s life'll get ten times less interesting. He’s been debating with himself for years on whether that’d be a good thing or a really, really sad thing, and he still comes up short of a final call, every time. 

“Good,” Tony tells her. “Maybe she’ll catch Clint’s overpouring for the VIP table before I have to.”

“You got the kid?” asks Nat, shrugging off the accusation as none of her business but _filing it_ , Tony knows.

“I got him, Rhodey’s-” Tony glances over and watches as Rhodey turns to the kid after settling into his stool and smiling, holding out a hand, reading Rhodey’s lips as the man asks, _“You come here often?”_ He smiles. He can always count on Rhodey. Twink saved! “-doing his thing. You know him.”

“I do,” says Nat, and then she's away, hips swaying to the driving rhythm of the music.

 _Oh, yeah. She does. She does know Rhodey. And his, his things_ , Tony reminds himself. _Christ. Gross._

He stops by Rhodey to drop off a shot, winking at the man and dropping a second drink beside the shot. “Watch that for me, big guy?” he asks.

“Always,” laughs Rhodey, sipping on his first drink, eyes alight with humor as he eyes their old _wingman for me, huh?_ bribe, the new subtext of _watch out for this one for me, huh?_ not lost on Lt. Col. James Rhodes. The man has been, is, and will always be Tony’s best man for any job- nothing too big or too small. Or too young.

Still. Times change.

“What’ll you have, kid?” asks Tony, grabbing for the bar rag and giving the surface a quick wipe while he waits, keeping everything clean.

The kid actually bites his fucking lip. Tony can _hear_ the inhale from the creeper peepers. Even Rhodey straightens and puffs up a bit, on full display declaring, _Back the fuck off, this one’s mine_. It won’t hold them off if the kid starts getting sloppy but Rhodey has a good track record for bouncing the creepers.

“A- a, um, Long Island? Iced tea?” squeaks the kid, searching Tony’s face for who-knew-what.

“A Long Island,” repeats Tony. 

“Um, yeah?” asks the kid nervously.

“Not an Amaretto Sour?” offers Tony hopefully.

“No,” says the kid firmly. “A Long Island.”

Rhodey laughs, “Aww, c’mon, Tones, it’s his _birthday_ , let him live a little.”

“Ohhh,” drawls Tony, eyebrows flying. “Your _birthday_. Well, let me be the first to say, you should get what you deserve. On your birthday.”

The disapproving tone doesn’t go over the kid’s head. He glares at Tony, his chin coming up, looking for all the world like a kicked golden retriever puppy in a goddamn junkyard full of feral mutts. He is gonna be eaten _alive_ , even with Tony and Rhodey on it, Tony knows, watching those liquid brown eyes try for a fierce expression. 

“Be nice,” laughs Rhodey, slinging an arm around the kid’s shoulder. “Peter, this is the worst, bitchiest bartender in the City, Tony Stark, the pleasure’s all his, you’re gonna hate him.”

Tony gives a mocking half-bow and begins to put on the show of a Long Island- grabbing all four bottles and doing the juggling tricks Clint had brought to the bar. He isn’t as advanced as Clint- no one in the _world_ can do the tricks the Hawk can do, pouring shots mid-fucking-air like a goddamn magician- but after five years with the guy, he can put on a show.

And he looks better doing it, he concedes, as the kid’s jaw drops and the crowd goes wild.

“Don’t be impressed,” protests Rhodey, laughing at the kid’s expression. “He’s still bitchy, you have no idea.”

Tony presents the drink with a flourish and rests two hands on the bar, leaning forward in a half-push-up. “Taste it,” he demands of the kid, and loves the way the gathered crowd sides with him on the challenge, hooting and catcalling.

The kid lowers his pink, plush, baby-fat-full lips to the straw and takes a single suck, someone in the background groaning. Tony frowns as the kid swallows, tilting his head back, his eyes fluttering closed. Is the kid a whore? Is that it? Is he cruising? No one sells that much sex, that young, and doesn’t realize it.

But, no, the little jerk hasn’t even taken off his puffy, unfashionable letterman jacket. Peter, if that is his name, has on a pacman t-shirt and loose jeans and goddamn sneakers. He isn’t hooking in that outfit, not in this bar, anyway. The few hookers who have already started to trickle in aren’t clawing cute little Peter’s eyes out, for one. The kid proves him right by opening his eyes in an expression of shock and awe, declaring, “It’s so good!”

“Of course it’s good, it’s on the house, too,” states Tony impulsively, one last test, just to be sure. He quirks a grin when the kid’s face goes shocked instead of calculating. Just an innocent. Just a sweet innocent, probably here for the music, probably just really into the headliner’s local career, probably has no idea about the clientele. Probably likes the cover charge, tonight. 

“What- why?” splutters the kid, hands digging in his pocket, going for his wallet.

Tony could cry, he really could, but he's already making the next drink shouted to him, and getting glasses set out for Richards and his usual guests. “Happy Birthday,” he declares, knocking his knuckles on the bar in passing before sliding away easily to go be an asshole to the next customer in line.

It hasn’t been a half-hour before the kid's flagging him down again and Tony feels his heart skip a beat. Fuck, no. The first drink hasn’t even hit the kid, where the fuck is Rhodey on this one?

_Oh._

There's Darcy, Ditzy Darcy, sliding an arm up Rhodey’s bicep and talking in his ear as the band did warm ups.

Well, the kid's about to lose his best wingman/babysitter, because Rhodey can dance and Darcy can’t sit still. Maybe the kid'll dance, too, maybe they'll drag him out and he’ll dance, and then he won’t drink- 

“Another,” orders the kid, quirking a shy smile at Tony. “Please.”

“Oh, God, don’t use your manners with him,” interjects Rhodey, laughing, one hand patting Darcy’s hand and the other slapping the back of the kid’s stool. He plants a kiss on Darcy’s hand- _so he’ll be out dancing, then,_ thinks Tony with an internal sigh, wondering who he can get to sit next to the kid. 

“I use my manners with everyone,” breathes the kid, his cheeks coloring just a little.

_Fuck._

_Fuck_ , he shouldn’t be here.

“Amaretto Sour, right?” asks Tony pointedly.

The kid blinks at him. “You never miss a drink,” he says, his sweet face bunching up in confusion. “I- you’ve remembered every order- you- how did you- I had a-”

“Long Island,” they finish together, because the gig is up, Tony’s conceding the fight. The kid’s gonna get plastered and it’s his fucking birthday and he’s in Tony’s section, and it won’t kill him. It won’t. Music starts in ten and another few sips won’t kill the kid.

Tony doesn’t put on a show this time- he just did a fancy rainbow drink monstrosity thing for the crowd fifteen minutes ago, and Clint’s on the other end flipping bottles and filling cups, _and_ Nat just did a shot with the bachelorettes, that’s enough attention on the bar. He just makes the kid his drink, quickly and quietly, efficiently, and puts it on the bar, bracing his hands on the bar again and glaring at the kid. “Last one. Water next,” he says firmly.

“Water next,” agrees the kid nervously, and Tony snorts. Yeah, he’s heard that before. 

“Water,” Tony shouts.

“Water!” and “Agua!” Nat and Clint shout back at him.

Steve, doing a pass among the tables, nods at Tony, mouthing _water_.

Yeah, so they’re all on the same page.

The kid glares at him and says resentfully, “I get it, I get it. I woulda-”

“You opening a tab?” asks Tony bluntly. He’s never _not_ blunt with the drunks, and his job is so much easier for it. Clint is evasive as fuck and Nat flirts and gets what she wants, but Tony? Tony’s learned how to be a laser. Slice ‘em, dice ‘em, never be nice to ‘em, that’s his motto. Especially when there’s so much that could go wrong.

“No. How much-” asks the kid, patting his pockets as if he’s searching for a wallet. Tony snorts. The creepers are probably salivating. He doesn’t look at any of them, he looks at Rhodey.

“I got it!” interrupts Rhodey excitedly, catching on. “I got it! It’s Peter’s birthday, Tones, he’s not paying tonight! No, shut up, Peter, I got it!”

Tony nods and slips to the POS station to add the last round of drinks to the tabs sitting there.

The band starts- seven minutes early, Tony notes, rolling his eyes because that’s not going to earn them brownie points- but they’re a newer band, maybe they’re just eager to play at the Tower. They have been drawing a significant number of critics in the past three years. Multiple acts have claimed they were discovered here, and there’s a certain cache about saying you played the Tower in New York, these days.

There’s even more cache in saying you shot darts with Clint, arm wrestled Thor, or stumped Tony on a drink, if you know anything about the Tower, if you’re a regular here.

The last one hasn’t happened in a year.

“Busy night,” murmurs Pepper, walking behind Tony. His eyes flick to the coat check and Steve’s standing there, taking coats quickly and efficiently, so she must have caught Clint overpouring by a heartbeat and decided to swoop in. Finally. That’s the bar’s money going into those assholes, and Clint’s always had the dumbass idea that if you overpour the VIPs, they tip more but _they do not_.

“Busy enough,” agrees Tony, mixing quickly.

“Guns working?”

“Seem to be,” grunts Tony, squirting the floor near her shoes with water. He grins as she glares at him, not giving an inch. “What? Time for a nozzle check.”

“We nozzle check in the sink, Tony,” she sighs at him, shaking her head. 

Tony grins at her. “Sure thing, bosslady. Next time. I’ll remember.”

“See that you do,” she says severely, moving on.

God, he loves her. She let him overhaul and upgrade the whole system on Wednesday but the real test is a Saturday night, everyone knows that. It’s early, but she let him upgrade the _whole system_ , and if the guns give out, well. It’s a lot of trust. It’s a _lot_ of trust. He loves her for it, especially after the Night The Ice Machine Went Out.

Harley skips in from the back. “Never fear, your barback is here!” he announces happily.

“About time,” grunts Nat before Tony can get to it.

“On time!” adds Harley. “Real time! Not just bar clock time!”

“On time is late, to a Russian,” laughs Clint. “I need set-ups _yesterday_.” 

“Ice,” grunt Nat and Tony in unison, sneering at each other companionably as the crowd goes crazy at the end of the first song.

On the other side of the bar, Rhodey and Darcy pull _Peter_ away from his stool and his drink.

No. Not his drink. His empty ice cup.

 _Fuck._ The kid makes _such poor decisions._

Steve wanders by and leans into the bar. “Coke for Bucky,” he tells Tony. Tony nods, glaring as he mixes his last round for the corner pocket and nods at the woman who sidles in next to Steve.

“You need anything?” he asks the bouncer in a bored tone.

“Water,” says Steve.

Tony sneers but he makes it, putting the plastic tumblers side-by-side.

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” call the bachelorettes, giggling. They’ve got the right kind of energy to amoeba tonight, Tony thinks, eyeing them up and glad they’re in Nat’s section. Nothing more terrifying than a bachelorette amoeba. The sheer amount of _glitter_ involved, every _time._ He shakes his head and mixes an old fashioned, tossing the muddler several times because he’s bored and it’s there.

“Is that a _wrench_ ,” shrieks a newbie in delight.

He grins at her. “Close enough! Ratchet! It’s a _kind_ of a wrench.”

“It’s _wooden_ ,” she shouts at him, happily. God, he loves a cute, enthusiastic, slightly awkward tipsy chick. They’re the best goddamn part of his night, and it’s not the tits, it’s the way they glow with false confidence and say all the shit they’re too shy to say normally.

“Sure is,” he agrees with her.

“You have a _great_ ass,” she gushes. _Case. In. Point._ “I’m a big fan!”

He smiles even more broadly, pulling the second beer. “Me too,” he tells her, like he’s sharing a confidential secret, and then he’s gone again, narrowly missing Harley skidding around in the free spaces between bartenders and coolers and the bar itself. “Watch it,” he growls at the guy.

“You watch it,” laughs Harley, shaking his ass at Tony and dropping Nat’s orange slices in her tray. “I’m working here!”

Tony’s never been prouder of the guy. He’s starting to sound like a real New Yorker, now. “Chrissake, you think that’s working?” He scoffs at the guy. “Looks like walkin’ in the Park.”

“Sure, sure,” laughs Harley, face alight. “You wouldn’t know the difference, ‘cause I never seen you work, ya know? But I assure you,” and the guy’s jogging to Clint’s section before Tony can even point out the need, calling back, “-this’s what work looks like, if you’re ever interested in tryin’!”

Tony’s so proud he could cry. The guy’s a natural smart alec and works hard, and already has no life outside the Tower. He’s gonna make a great ‘tender when Pep’s ready to move him up, and frankly, they could use another solid one, since the Langs left for Cali.

~~~

He keeps an eye on the kid, and watches the creepers in the bar eye the kid up, too. They all slip their eyes over the kid, as he lets Rhodey peel him out of his coat and hand it off to Thor, who takes it to the coat check and hands the kid a paper number. The too-big jeans slide down, revealing the upper band of his underwear and fuck, the shirt that looked loose hanging from him when his shoulders were slumped is now tight across that toned stomach. Peter- _the kid has a name,_ Tony reminds himself sternly- is swinging his hips with Darcy coaching him, while Rhodey laughs and _by his mere presence_ protects the kid from anything but eyes sliding over all the skin that’s revealed every time the kid throws his arms up, his hands twined with Darcy’s as they spin.

“Jailbait,” mutters Nat as Tony and her take a breather, the crowd either dancing or watching full drinks at tables, Harley scampering around making sure the stations are kept fully stocked. They’re leaning because they’ve _earned_ a fucking lean, and in thirty seconds, they’ll be cleaning, and Tony’s punching his first manager in the face mentally because he shouldn’t feel so fucking guilty about thirty seconds of lean. The bar gleams, the crowd’s happy, not one soul is waiting on them, and Harley’s a good ‘backer, the stations are all in good condition.

“Agreed,” says Tony, unable to take his eyes off of that peek of white flesh that flares from time to time, in the strobe-shot gloom of the mood lighting on the dance floor.

“How late’s Rhodey staying?” Nat asks him.

“Bar-time, if I ask,” Tony tells her, followed quickly by sucking in air and conceding, “or whenever, if Darcy asks.”

“She won’t, she likes the kid,” Nat tells him. Nat’s the best judge of character, she’s taught Tony an entire college course of social psychology in the years they’ve worked together, putting the bar on the map. If Nat says Darcy’s staying, then Rhodey’s staying, and Tony can relax a little.

Or so he thinks, as he snaps forward to begin helping Harley clear and clean his station. The next time he looks up, Peter’s laughing and being spun by Doc Oc- so called because it’s like the creeper has ten tentacles instead of just two hands, and he’s always touching someone on the dancefloor. Thor’s there before Tony can even do more than startle, though, and Doc Oc’s been told to back off with _punctuation_ by Thor before, so he puts his hands up and laughs, shaking his head and miming that he’s thirsty, hitting up Clint’s section.

Two more creepers slide in before Darcy and Rhodey notice and rescue the kid for another dance, while Tony cracks beers and slides them across the bar, building a Guinness for the Cassidy, who’s only here, Tony would guess, because he’s sniffing around the band to see if they’d be interested in a contract.

They’re fucking good.

They _should_ sign with the Cassidy.

“On the house, Sean,” he tells the man, and the man slips a tip that would cover the cost of the drink and a tip, besides.

“You tell th’lil’lady from me,” says the label exec, with his lilting brogue, “that I appreciate the tip.”

“Oh, did Pep tell you to come tonight?” asks Tony, surprised, eyeing up the band with more interest. He didn’t realize they were one of Pep’s little projects.

“Sh’sure did,” agrees the Irishman. He smiles at the crowd and adds, “I see Jameson’s sent his new acquisition.”

“Huh?” asks Tony, scanning the crowd, looking for the Lifestyles-reporter-type.

“The twink,” laughs the Cassidy, nodding at the dancing crowd. “New guy, saw him at Gartier’s on Friday, ripped ‘em a new one about the bathroom floors in this morning’s edition.”

“Good,” declared Tony absently. He’d worked for Gartier, early on, and the bathroom floors had been chipped and nasty then. Not the women’s rooms, of course. That’s just death for a club. _Wait-_ “The twink?” he asks, nodding at Peter.

“Th’verra one,” intones the Irishman, smiling.

“He sent the kid _here?”_ asks Tony, appalled. This isn’t a _youth_ draw, the goal is to collect music lovers who won’t cause the kind of drama you get with a younger crowd. Who won’t _tempt_ the way a younger crowd tempts.

“He did,” agrees the Cassidy, straightening, shaking his head. “Y’got a verra fine reputation fer music and a shite one fer yer regulars,” he tells Tony, lifting an eyebrow.

“We don’t _want_ a younger crowd,” Tony argues. “That’s why we _built_ the NXT Generation.”

The Cassidy laughs and says, “Ach, now, there’s a lie. Ye’ve got that nasty reputation, Stark, and the lads who hang ‘round know it, and know-“

“That’s behind me,” says Tony flatly, turning to scan the bar, praying for a patron to be waiting impatiently, tapping angrily that he’s been talking instead of pouring them their poison.

“That’s as may be,” concedes Cassidy with a grin, pushing away from the bar, “but ye’ve had yer eyes on ‘im all night yerself, and that’s yer old wingman swinging him around, Tony, and you can’t tell me it dinna make men like Doc Oc a little bolder, seein’ it.”

Tony shakes his head, dismissing the man, as Nat shoulders him out of the cooler.

“He’s wrong,” Nat tells him in an undertone. “The creeper crowd comes for the music- they go to other bars on nights when their favorite acts aren’t playing here.” Tony looks at her, stunned, and she adds, “Don’t let him rattle your cage. You know he’s wrong.”

Tony sneers at her, because that and swearing profusely and death threats are their three love languages, and rolls his shoulders, getting back to work by wiping down his section and getting Frankie’s beer ready for him so the man can stay lost in the music, eyes closed and swaying.

He glances out to the dance floor like a compulsion, though, and there’s the twink reporter- _Peter_ \- eyes also closed, head tossed back in the strobing lights, laughing and swaying his hips while Darcy does an absolutely ridiculous wild spin beside him.

Tony swallows. He’s just looking out for the kid, that’s all. The guy looks twelve. Tony just doesn’t want him getting in any trouble, that’s all, that’s where it ends.

That’s where he _makes_ it end, these days.

“Hey!” shouts a voice, and Tony startles, hands already reaching for his tools- pint glass and ice scoop- as he turns to make the next drink.

He just wants the kid to have a good time, and get home safe, that’s all. Just like any other bartender in New York tonight.

No. Wait.

3000 times better than any other bartender in New York.

Yeah.

That’s right.

He’s Tony Fucking Stark, and he doesn’t just _call_ the shots, in his own fucking bar. _He makes them._

~~~

The kid pants up to the bar when the band takes a break between sets- with everyone else and their uncle _and_ their uncle’s second trophy wife, everyone suddenly realizing they need water. Water, which used to be the slowest thing on the guns but now is just as fast as the carbonated shit, _thank you, Tony_. The guns are holding up great, and Tony’s a Weapon of Thirst Destruction genius, and he’ll take the Pulitzer for privatizing world peace one patron at a time, thanks, they can drop it in the mail any day.

It’s a miracle that there’s space for the kid, but Rhodey’s an old hand at shows, and he slipped from the dance floor to secure their seats in Tony’s section well before the end of the last song in the set.

“Water,” gasps the kid, as he sways into the bar. He’s definitely shit-faced drunk. 

“Good boy,” Tony praises him, catching the jaw drop and the blush out of the corner of his eyes, already serving him the water with scant ice. 

“Peter is the best,” Darcy informs him, draping herself on his bar and grinning. “He’s also really _really_ drunk, Tony.”

“I wanted to throw up,” announces Peter miserably. If he’s looking for sympathy, he’s coming to the wrong store. Tony already cut him off.

“Danced instead,” Darcy sings at him. He grins at her, but is definitely looking a little green around the gills.

“Well, drink that up, and Rhodey, order the kid a pizza,” suggests Tony.

“Oh, hey, yeah, food,” enthuses Darcy, switching to draping herself on Rhodey. “Pepperoni!”

“Please,” begs the kid, but Rhodey’s already nodding at Tony.

Tony takes orders, mixes drinks, and stops by every couple of rounds to fill up the kid’s water. The kid makes excessively grateful noises at him and devours the pizza, Darcy and him exclaiming over the incredible awesomeness of the sheer stretch of the cheeses underneath the pepperoni. Only drunks and small children have the same gleefully intense appreciation for stretch mozzarella. Rhodey grins at Tony and drums his fingers on the bartop, in his element and buzzing as only a true extrovert can. Tony can sympathize. He’s tried his hand at other things, over the years, even tried to be the manager, like Pepper, but he can’t. He loves the people, the small interactions and the pounding beat of the music- the way it can just lift him up off aching feet and creaking knees and makes him feel punch drunk in love with life.

When the band starts up, they drag Peter back out on the floor. He throws himself into the music just as wildly as he had the first time.

Tony’s head is bobbing along with what is turning out to be a really good cover when Clint sidles over and grins at him. “Wanna toss bottles and put on a show next break?”

“Yes,” declares Tony, because other than the Saga of the Brown-eyed Twink, this shift has been fairly standard and boring.

The time flies- he’s taught Harley to _work ahead_ , (the kid is ready to move up), and there’s no goddamn emergency situations for once, the whole shift. The band is gracious and shouts, “Tip the bartenders, for keeping us drunk and happy!” at least once per set, and the crowd is a good draw- there’s still a line outside at eleven, Bucky letting people in with a careful eye toward fire capacity, as some people stumble out into the world to find other scenes.

The tip jar overflows twice, typical for a full crowd.

It’s good business to run five bartenders with a crowd this size, but Nat and Clint and Tony have run so many years of shows that they’re seamless. The regulars don’t mind waiting a moment for drinks they don’t have to order, and the rushes are predictable. They really _should_ get another barback, because Harley is literally racing. But it’s okay. It’s do-able.

Pep steps in once, and Steve slides behind the bar after every set, his hands competent and his smile plastered on, a showman at heart. He’s happier prowling, looking for trouble, but he’s also good at slinging drinks, in a pinch. Steve’s annoyingly competent at everything, and Tony catches him grabbing a glass of water for Peter on the dance floor _twice_.

“Two Long Islands?” mutters Steve as he passes behind Tony, glaring judgment that itches between Tony’s shoulderblades like a backstab.

“He’s fine,” Tony tells the other man. “I cut him off, he’s dancing, he’s had a pizza, and nothing but water.”

Steve holds up two fingers at Tony as he leans in to take a drunk woman’s order, the perfect picture of a great listener.

Nat rolls her eyes where Steve can’t see them, and Tony grins at her.

Steve has a point, but- well. The kid’s going to be fine.

Tony knows how to get people drunk and keep people alive. The kid’s gonna stay ‘til close and be fine.

The set ends and Clint nods at Tony. Together they shout, “Stupid ‘Tender Trick Time!” gleefully as Nat signals for Bucky to turn on the Stupid Bartender Trick Time music. Bucky sighs but flips the switch and shakes his head, eyeing the crowd as he fucks with the lighting a little, to help the people in the back see more clearly.

Tony and Clint begin slinging bottles back and forth mixing drinks from fifteen feet away while juggling, and then they individually do fancy pours- each of them racing the other one to build a taller tower or a more insane cascade, as soon as they can find a round-backer who’s willing to pay.

There’s always some drunk idiot, before the last set, willing to pay to have them do tricks.

Nat circulates around them, drawing beers and mixing quieter things, passing them with a tight smile as Harley and Steve fill in, too, with broad matching smiles. The flair is just a part of the fun of working with Clint, and has been since the first shift, Clint tossing Tony a bottle and shouting, “Pour it your damn self,” and then flipping four bottles in the air, catching them to make a Riptide. The competition between them has been fierce and funny and painful and glorious, and if Nat and Clint ever decide to move to Cali, Tony’s gonna put his head down on the bar and sob.

Clint’s an asshole, and just slightly better than Tony, but they’ve only ever broken three bottles, during showtime.

“Hey, Tony,” laughs the kid, and how the fuck he’s remembered Tony’s name is an amazement. _No one_ as drunk as the kid is should remember their _own_ name. “That’s not stupid!’ he tells Tony, eyes shocked wide and awed as he watches Tony pour drinks from bottles held on his shoulders.

“The tricks aren’t stupid, the bartenders are,” Nat informs him, sliding him another water. “That’s the whole joke.”

“Oh,” says the kid, his face scrunching adorably in confusion as the band takes to the stage again, rattling their drums and riffing on their guitars. Bucky looks grateful to flick the lighting back to the dancefloor and phase the Trick Time flair music into the house music again. 

Tony finishes the last trick with a cocky grin, to general applause, passing the tray of glimmering shots to the man at the end of the bar who’d said he’d pay, and as he walks by Peter, Peter mumbles something. He makes a note to get back to the kid, and he does, as the band starts up again and Darcy starts to tug the kid back out to the floor.

“You’re not dumb,” the kid shouts at him, pulled away just as Tony pauses at his stool. “I mean, you’re really- that was so cool!”

Tony feels his heart race as he watches the kid’s awed, open expression be pulled back. “I know,” he tells the kid, aiming for cocky asshole and hoping none of his internal preening is visible.

The Cassidy nods at him from across the room, grinning before turning his attention to the stage.

Well. He’s an Irish asshole and Nat says he’s wrong, and Nat’s never wrong, not about people. She’s a manipulative, half-dead-inside saint with daddy issues that rival Tony’s own daddy issues, and somewhere in life she took a really wrong turn, to be spending it as the third best bartender in New York, but she’s never wrong about people.

So the Cassidy can suck it.

“Hey! Tony!” shouts a voice, and he pulls his gaze from that flash of skin above one particular underwear band on the dance floor. 

~~~

“Thank you, thank you! Goodnight!” says the band’s lead singer, and Tony’s eyes flick to the clock. Thirty minutes to last call. His feet ache and his knees ache and Harley’s stocking the cases like he hasn’t been running all night, the little shit, running around all spry _on purpose_ to make Tony feel decrepit.

Half the crowd begins to shuffle to the door- they were here for the music, the music is over, they’ll go afterparty somewhere and replay all the best parts. The other half mobs the bar.

Pepper and Steve both slide smoothly behind the bar, Pepper gracious and poised, Steve fucking perfect and both of them so fucking slow, in comparison to the regular bar staff. Harley snorts and shoves Steve aside, filling up the domestic beer case with fast hands that fly, and he’s got a point, Tony concedes. They don’t _need_ three bartenders and two barbacks, they can get it done, but they should look into expansion. Soon. It’s not good, to run this tight.

His anxiety rears up at adding anyone else to the crew though. They’re all _stable_ back here, they’re all solid and good and no one has a home life that’s gonna explode and interfere with their work, and that’s not the usual story. Anyone they could hire, could add, that would be a risk.

“Water, water, water!” chants Darcy, adding, “An’ a lemon!” in a slur of exhaustion and tipsy, her tits jiggling as she bounces beside Peter on the stool. Rhodey watches the tits because he’s the _worst_ gay best friend in the history of best friends- he hardly even _qualifies_ as gay- and he’ll follow Ditzy Darcy and her tits all night if she lets him.

“We can get lemon?” asks Peter blearily, lifting his head from where he’s slumped it on the bar. He blinks his liquid brown eyes at Darcy, who grins down at him and pats his head fondly. 

“Baby, I can get you anything you want,” she promises him. “Only come out again tomorrow. The Tesseract’s doing another live show, I wanna dance with you!”

“Don’t go to the Tesseract,” says Rhodey firmly. “That’s the worst decision- Darcy, you’re trying to get our new best friend roofied.”

“I am not,” laughs Darcy, patting Peter again. “Tell me you’ll come dancing with me again,” she demands imperiously.

Tony hands over her water with lemon, dropping a lemon in Peter’s glass in passing, listening carefully while trying not to look like he’s doing anything but filling water orders.

“I dunno,” slurs Peter. “I’m- this’s all a job, Darcy, I tol’ you.”

“Nobody calls dancing with me a job,” she gasps, aghast.

“No, I mean-” and Peter’s wave takes in the whole of the club. “ _This_. I’m here on _assignment._ ”

“Oh,” she sighs sadly. She turns her own puppy-dog brown eyes on him and whimpers, “But Peeee-ter, I wanna daaaaance with you.”

Peter crumbles for Darcy’s whimpering, pouty lips and big brown eyes with an actual sheen of tears across them. Or maybe for the tits she’s pressing against his arm with probably-faked-anxiety. He’s probably hetero, then, thinks Tony with a deep internal sigh of relief. If he’s hetero, the creepers have no chance. The cougars’ll be thrilled, though.

He’s poured about forty waters, closed thirty tabs, and then Nat’s shouting, “Last Call,” in that terrifying tone of hers.

There’s the inevitable sudden crashing wave of people who don’t want to be done with their night, either due to desperation or delight, and then Tony’s wiping down his station, eyes on Rhodey and Darcy and Peter, who have spread out, one to a stool in the gray area between Nat’s section and his.

Harley stumbles by with a case of Bud Light and Tony catches the guy, straightening him out and holding him still for a few second. “Nat called it, Harley, why’n’t you slip on the other side until we lock doors?” he offers quietly. “Go make friends with Darcy’s new best friend.”

“Who, the twink?” asks Harley, head whipping around to look at the trio who are laughing and talking together animatedly.

“Not gay,” Tony tells him, quirking a grin.

“Noooo,” drawls Harley, shoving all of the Southern twang he’s almost lost entirely into the twelve syllables he makes the word. “Yeah, sure, can you make me a-”

“Jack and Coke, got it, thanks Harls,” says Nat, sliding by. “You want bathrooms or backroom tonight?”

“I can do backroom,” offers Harley, as the clock beeps out 2 AM and Bucky goes for the lights. There’s only a few souls left, hovering around the band as they deconstruct their gear and shove it in cases. Pepper is smiling as she talks to them, and Tony’s feet are throbbing, so the bar is well in the black tonight.

“I got bathrooms,” says Nat, as Steve and Thor both bring another tray of empties from the dancefloor and tables.

“I’ll do rail and cups,” calls Clint.

Floors,” Tony tells them. That’s usually how it works out, anyway.

“I want pizza,” Clint declares. “Anyone in?”

“In,” declare Tony, Nat, Steve, and Thor.

“Sweet, Coulson’s okay?”

“Yup,” they declare again as one. Clint heads to the back to grab his phone and text the all-night guy at Coulson’s. Tony and Steve and Thor grin at Nat, who rolls her eyes at them, hands moving swiftly down the line.

“Coulson’s again, huh?” teases Steve gently.

“What? He’s cute,” says Nat, but there’s a hint of defensiveness in the flicks of her wrists and the purse of her lips that makes the three men exchange smiles.

“Hey, should we- we should go?” Peter asks in a high voice, as if he hadn’t noticed the last call and the 2 AM- GET OUT alarm and the shuffle of _everyone else_ in the bar heading to the doors.

“Nah, Tony’s moochers can stay,” Clint tells him with a grin.

“Hey!” yelps Darcy. “I help!”

After a second of silence, she adds, “Hey! I’m not _Tony’s_ moocher. If I’m _anybody’s_ moocher, I’m _Thor’s_.”

“This is true,” intones the bouncer, grabbing a bar rag to start on the tables and tossing her one of his incandescent smiles. 

Tony peers at the band, who are mostly broken down and mostly out the door, and then at the front door, where Bucky is locking up behind the last of the barflies. Soon it will just be them, the staff, and as much as he loves the fast paced rhythm of the bar, there’s something amazing about the magic of a good after-bar work crew. Clint starts in describing some sportsball thing, Steve interrupting with corrections where Clint’s descriptions get a little _florid_ , Bucky interrupting _him_ where Clint’s descriptions may have been _florid,_ but were also _factual._

Banner comes down from the office to grab the tip money and take it back up. Anyone but Banner, and they might all get nervy, but they’ve all been working here for long enough that it’s actually nice not to figure out how to split it three ways, plus tip out Harley and the bouncers their lesser shares. Tony asks Bucky for the headcount and then he and Nat begin their nightly bet of how much they drew in tips. As always, Tony aims high and Nat aims low and they sneer at each other and swear mutual death regardless of the outcome.

The pizza arrives before Harley and Nat wander off to other cleaning duties, and so then _Phil’s_ invited in, and the grins on Steve and Tony’s faces are slashed to ribbons by the glare Nat shoots them as Clint’s whole face lights up for the man. Phil sits with the ease of someone who has developed a routine and who plans for Saturday nights around 2:45 to be sitting in someone else’s place.

Clint lines up shots, a crazy mixture for everyone except for Nat and Pepper, who both won’t touch anything but tequila and who will actually just _leave the shot_ if Clint tries to push those boundaries. _Savages._

“Staff round,” he declares with relish, as Phil flips pizza box lids open and everyone congregates.

Tony hangs back, just for a second, enjoying this, loving this moment, where everyone he cares about in the world is gathered together- Bruce upstairs counting out their tips and dividing them the usual way- everyone happy and feeling satisfied after a good shift. It’s an amazing feeling, more heady than the most expensive bottle in the bar. It makes his heart race, to see them all here, everyone grabbing for their shot glass, laughing at Clint teasing Peter that it barely has any alcohol content at all, doesn’t he _trust_ his bartender?

Almost as one, they turn to look at him and he smiles broadly. “What, feeling a little sentimental,” he declares defensively, sliding beside Nat to grab the shot left- a red and orange monstrosity. “Here’s to the place that makes us race, long may she stand her ground,” he intones, tapping his glass on the bar.

“Here, here,” agree the regular crew- his friends, because they’ve become that- tapping their shots on the bar as well, before they all throw back and grin at each other.

“Band did good,” says Pepper, watching the drummer cart his last box out of the door. “Said they doubled their gig in tips.”

Bucky and Harley whistle and then glare at each other before grinning, Bucky’s hands coming up to grip Harley’s shoulders and shake the guy a little. “What am I putting on for you?” he asks Harley in a low voice.

Harley purses his lips and then declares, “Classic rock. AC/DC playlist.”

“You got it, babe,” says Bucky, dropping a kiss to Harley’s neck that makes Harley shiver and a hot spike of _I-want-that_ shoot through Tony. But he’s got two decades on the bouncer, who’s well within Harley’s seven-year-safety-split. And he doesn’t want _Harley_ , per se.

 _You’re just tired_ , he tells himself.

“Hey, so, we’re gonna head,” says Rhodey, Darcy tucked into his arm. “You got our digits, Peter, I’ll try to keep her from being annoying but I have never once had success.”

Peter smiles up at them, pure sunshine in the darkest part of the night and says, “Thanks, for, uh, being my free bodyguards.”

Darcy makes fingerguns at him and shoots them, saying, “Our pleasure,” with a lascivious wink before dragging Rhodey towards the empty coat check and the door.

“You did not drive,” Tony tells Peter.

Peter grins up at him and says, “What, you applying to be my dad?”

Around the bar, people choke on their pizza.

Tony stares at the kid, and then says, “I’m not dignifying that _absolutely shitty comeback_ with a snappy, pattery response. You got Uber, or are you within walking distance?”

“Gonna take the subway,” says the kid, shrugging a shoulder. And that means the kid didn’t get an advance on his Lifestyles article, Tony realizes with a sinking feeling in his stomach. No one takes the 3 AM unless they can’t afford any other mode of transportation.

“The 3 AM subway,” repeats Steve.

“Like hell,” snarls Bucky.

 _Like hell_ , agrees every fiber of Tony’s being. The kid is slight and small and wide-eyed and innocent and he’s gonna get mugged for his goddamn _mouth_ , the subway trolls are going to take one look at him and correctly identify that he doesn’t _belong_ with them on the train at 3 AM, and handle it the only way they know how to handle anything.

Not on Tony’s watch.

Not on Thor’s either, apparently. “Where do you live, tiny dancer?” he asks solemnly. Nat snorts but everyone else enjoys the instant nickname, grinning at each other. Thor’s a weirdo from Sweden but he has _such a way with words._

“Queens,” offers the kid warily.

“That’s by Stevie and me,” says Bucky. “We’ll drop you.”

Brooklyn and Queens are not “by” each other but the offer can stand, decides Tony. It’ll raise suspicion if he offers a ride, anyway.

Everyone knows how Tony used to be.

~~~

And that’s how it starts, Peter going out to various clubs for his job, and always showing up at the Tower around midnight, when Bucky’s off of the door and there’s no cover charge for the last set, sliding inside and handing his coat to Pepper or whoever’s in the coat check with a grin, scanning the crowd for his favorite regulars, his face lighting up if Darcy’s there.

That’s how it starts, Peter becoming enough of a regular in two weeks that everyone greets him by name with excitement. His right to stay inside after last call is never challenged, especially when he pulls heart-melting shit like calling Coulson’s Pizzaria to splurge his first paycheck on them, the doors locked and everyone thrumming from the phenomenal band that just walked out. Tony’s list of favorite things about his chosen life begins to include Peter sweaty and grinning, sliding up to the bar and ordering something new every night, never returning to the Long Islands and cheerfully telling everyone that the hangover was _three days long_.

It serves the kid right, and Tony’s glad he was the one bartender in New York to teach the kid that lesson.

Harley and Peter decide to take a spring term course together, which is so adorable Tony could spit, and they work on the math problems after last call when the lights go up, before the doors lock and the cleaning starts.

Tony almost gets used to the sparkle in the kid’s eyes, almost has the kid firmly in the _friend_ bucket with Harley and then the Shift of Nightmares hits, and hits hard, and ruins all of his carefully laid plans to keep it that way forever.

~~~

“Fuck, I don’t feel so good,” mumbles Harley, plastering himself against Tony’s side. Tony glances at him, because he can feel the heat boiling off the kid. Rosy cheeks, glassy eyes, and yeah, that’s typical drunk, but Harley doesn’t drink until Last Call, _ever_. 

Tony scans the bar and the clock- eleven, _shit_ , and orders, “Back room, now.”

He hustles Harley into the backroom and shoves the kid into the broken, wobbly stool they keep beside the sink. “You sit, and when Bucky gets back here-” they both know he will, he’ll flag Thor or Steve down the minute he glances over three times in a row and Harley’s nowhere in sight at the bar “- you tell him I said you’re done. Christ, kiddo, you’re burning up,” he mutters, after pressing the back of his hand to Harley’s forehead. 

“You need me,” moans Harley, and, yeah, a small bar, Tony’s sure it feels like that, but they can limp along without the kid- and without Bucky, too.

“We sure do,” agrees Tony. “Luckily the band sucks tonight-” not entirely accurate but they’ve definitely lost a few regulars to the show playing at the Tesseract “-and the crowd’s light. We’ll limp along. Case’ll be empty by the end, but won’t take us long to fill ‘em after we lock the doors.”

“I don’t wanna leave,” groans Harley, and Tony can sympathize. He pats the guy on the shoulder and says firmly, “Wait here for Bucky.”

That’s the problem with couples, when one goes down, you often lose both.

“Piece of _shit_ machine,” Clint yells at Tony, glaring as Tony approaches the POS station. “What the _fuck_ did you do this afternoon?”

“Nothing,” spits Tony, shouldering him out of the way and flicking through screens quickly. “What the _fuck_ did you try to key in?”

“My goddamn drinks, for tab 27,” growls Clint angrily, tossing his head. “The fucking thing went all glitchy and I-”

“Fuck,” swears Tony, hunching over the terminal, “Switch to post its.”

“Fuuuuuuck, man, you swore I would never have to do mental math again, asshole,” accuses Clint, opening drawer and cupboards and beginning the paper tab system. 

Tony scans the bar- Nat has slid down to cover both of their stations seamlessly, and it’s mid-set so nobody’s gonna wait too long anyway, but he has about a half-hour to get this fixed before the set ends and all hell breaks lose. They can do it manually- they’ve done it before, after all- but it’s definitely not ideal. 

He cracks his knuckles and hunches, and reboots the station to code like his life depends on it.

“Everything okay?” mutters Bucky, stalking past without waiting for a response. Tony doesn’t even twitch- he’s going to go back there and they’ll both be gone within the next fifteen, Bucky’s awful about his baby when his baby gets sick.

“Everything okay?” murmurs Nat, minutes later, sidling up to Tony. “They’re about to-”

“-take a break, I know, I know, Clint fucked up the machine, I told you,” growls Tony, glaring at the code. “Give me fifteen, I found it and I gotta- just- he shouldn’t have been _able_ to access that root menu, that’s the whole point of making it _idiot-proof_ , what the _fuck_ , Jarvis.”

“I can give you fifteen,” Nat says easily, “But then we’re gonna _need_ another set of hands, and-”

“Steve, or Pepper,” spits Tony, “seriously, Nat, you gotta let me-”

“Okay,” says Nat in a warning tone.

And that’s when the door goes crazy with the bachelor party that arrives.

By the time Peter’s sliding up to the bar, Nat and Steve and Clint are in the weeds, and Pepper is floating between door and coat check, while Thor wanders the bar grabbing empties, stacking them in the already-full tub with a look of concern at the bar. “Hey, Peter,” shouts Nat. “You want to earn free drinks this week?”

“Yeah, yeah, what- what do you need?” Peter asks breathlessly, as Tony glares at the code in front of him, shoulders hunched because _fuck Clint,_ and _fuck Harley’s fucking immune system, too_ , and _fuck Harley’s boyfriend_ , _the lazy, overprotective piece of shit._

“Come play Harley, tonight?” offers Nat.

“Yeah- yeah!” says the kid eagerly, and then he’s running behind the bar, asking what to do first.

“Glasses,” directs Clint, “we need ‘em washed and sanitized, there’s fucking visual aids by the station.”

“Got it,” says the kid eagerly, and then they’re all off to the races again.

Tony snarls his victory as he gets the station back up and running again, entering the paper tabs with fast hands as Bruce appears from the office and walks over to Pepper. _Never a good sign_ , thinks Tony, as Nat and Clint join him in watching Bruce walk and share concerned glances with Tony for a split second before Clint crows, “Oh, oh, you got my baby to work again! Sweet Jeebus, I’ll kiss you, Stark!”

“You’ll have to catch me, first,” he shoots back at the man, shouldering Steve out of the way to a happy shout from his regular crowd. “Go find out what Bruce and Pepper need,” he calls to Steve shortly, but Steve’s already on his way.

Tony’s almost got his station out of the weeds again, sending Peter to cut grapefruit for all three of them since the bachelor party is screaming “Gin and Juice” like they plan to owe Snoop Dogg royalties at the end of the night, when Steve jogs up to him, face dark. “NXT needs them, both of them,” he declares.

“Fuck,” breathes Tony. It happens- Tower is his baby, but NXT is their money maker, and they keep it staffed with trendy young people who sometimes need Mama _and_ Daddy to come help them out in a pinch. He rolls his shoulders while popping caps off of Millers and tells the man, “Thor on the door, you on the floor-”

“Won’t work, he can’t do coats and the door and we’ve still got a whole set,” says Steve.

Fuck, why can’t Thor fucking _multi-task_ for once? It’s a serious fucking problem on nights like this, having a guy who gives 130% percent, but only to one personal crusade at a time.

“Fine, you do door and coats, I’ll handle lights and music _and my station_ ,” spits Tony, “and Thor can prima-donna his way around the goddamn perimeter and grab empties. Peter’s playing barback and he’s not- not sucking too badly, actually.”

It’s not a surprise. The kid’s pretty much a genius, according to Harley. And it doesn’t _take_ a genius to barback.

“Sounds like a plan,” agrees Steve, heading off. 

The band starts up just past midnight, Tony literally running to the sound and light controls, and then Nat and Clint and Tony and Peter scramble to fill stations.

“No tricks tonight?” asks Brock, leaning across the bar to watch Tony mix his whiskey sour like he always does, like Tony’s ever stiffed him _once_.

“Moving too fast.” Tony grins at him tightly. “We’re doing the tricks, you just aren’t catchin’ ‘em.”

He’s turned away, so he doesn’t see it, but based on sound and experience alone, he can picture it. Peter’s got a tray, not a tub, full of glasses, and he moves right to avoid Nat flying to the POS terminal, and Clint steps to the left to grab a bottle and-

“Ooooh, dock that guy’s pay,” shouts some asshole in the bachelor party. Someone _always_ thinks they’re so fucking witty, and at midnight, that is actually probably pretty witty for most drunks. Tony opens his eyes from his instinctive wince at the sound of _that much_ broken glass and glances over to see an apologetic Peter trying to pick up the glass shards _with his goddamn hands_ while Clint clutches his wrist- _not good-_ over the sink - _even more not good_. Nat grabs the kid up and practically throws him in the direction of the broom and pan, and tosses Tony a half-frantic look as she rips the receipts from the POS machine and slides them into a folder.

 _Not. Good. At. All,_ thinks Tony, scanning the bar and deciding everyone can wait while he assesses.

“Fuck, I think- Tony, I think I need stitches,” grunts Clint, eyes narrowed at the blood flowing down the drain in front of him. “I saw- before the blood welled up, it’s-” he hisses, “-pretty deep.”

“You drip blood anywhere else?” asks Tony, which is stupid and irrelevant, they’re going to have to sanitize the whole fucking station no matter how careful Clint was.

“Probably not,” says Clint through gritted teeth. 

Tony grabs the first aid kit and paper towels, pressing them over the bar napkins Clint’s already got against the wound and wrapping them tightly with gauze. “Go, go,” he tells the man. “Take money from the tip jar to cover the cab, get to the hospital, go! Get out of my bar!”

Clint nods tightly, and Nat slides over for a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be there the minute we close the doors, I promise,” Tony overhears and _fuck_. There goes his entire morning, cleaning this place, but that’s fair.

Peter’s done sweeping, red-faced and shaking, as Nat slides around the bar, grabbing the angriest face first. Tony grabs the kid by the shoulder and shakes him once until Peter tilts his face up, eyes searching Tony’s, mouth already spewing apologies. 

“‘It’s not your fault, Peter. Nat and I both have scars from Harley’s first crazy shifts, it _happens_ , don’t _stress_ it, okay? I need your head in the game, because tonight’s a hell shift, and they _happen_ , and you’re _helping,_ okay? You’re the superhero we need right now. You remember where the ice machine is?” The kid nods, shoulders squaring. “Okay, we’re closing Clint’s section, nobody’s working out of it until we can sanitize everything, so it’s just me and Nat you gotta keep iced up and stocked, okay, kid? Nat’ll take right half and I’ll take left, and you just worry about our two stations, okay? Think you can do that?”

The kid nods, his eyes going adorably serious, lips pursed as he thinks. 

Tony figures that’s going to have to do, as a pep talk, because the noises at the bar are getting cranky and they’re still mid-set and now’s the time to be climbing _out_ of the weeds, not diving deeper into them. He releases the kid and turns back to his half of the bar, blowing out a breath and sucking a lungful back in.

There will definitely be no other tricks besides _sheer speed_ tonight. What a _shit_ shift this is turning out to be.

~~~

Thor laughs and bodily assists the last of the bachelor party out of the door, shouting, “There! Now you may say you were bested by Thor at wrestling _and_ you were tossed out of the Tower- an auspicious start to any marriage! Best of luck tomorrow! May your marriage be as fruitful as the drinks you consumed this night!”

Peter slumps into the stool beside Tony, hollow-eyed.

“I’m going,” Nat announces, her purse already in her hands, keys to their car dangling.

“Yeah, got this, bye,” says Tony.

Nat slips up beside Peter and places a kiss on his cheek. “You were great, Peter. Thank you for stepping up.” 

“I broke Clint,” Peter tells her, bewildered.

“Clint broke Clint,” she corrects him, smiling slightly. “You did great. You were our superhero.” She drops another kiss on his cheek and pats his shoulder as she turns to Tony. “Don’t stay up all night stocking,” she tells Tony. “Don’t let him stay up, he’ll send everyone home and re-stock the whole bar,” she warns Peter, the snitch. “There’s a reason we don’t let him close alone.”

“I- I won’t,” Peter promises. “I- um. I need a ride, anyway, if- I mean, maybe Steve could-”

“Steve’s only got one helmet,” spits Tony.

“Can you call Coulson’s, let Phil know?” says Nat suddenly. “Tell him, we’ll be at St. Mary’s.”

“Yeah,” agrees Tony, adding it to the list.

Thor comes up with the last tub of empties as the band opens the side door and begins humping their gear outside. “I will take floors, if you, Steve, will get bathrooms,” he intones.

“I can do floors,” offers Peter.

“Actually, let me show you how to set up the backroom and let you do cases,” says Tony, looking around the bar and realizing how much _work_ there is left to do, if he’s doing bar tear-down to sanitize Clint’s station and reset the place for the weekend.

Some bars leave it for morning, but neither Tony nor Pepper nor Bruce can sleep, tossing and turning until their babies are settled down, clean and neat and ready for the next shift, and so the Tower and NXT always get their scrub down while the spills are still fresh and easy to scrub off.

“Yeah, Tony, yes,” agrees Peter easily, as wide eyed as the first five minutes Tony had seen him, caught at ID with Bucky, trying to get his ID out of his wallet.

He shows Peter the ropes, how to move the booze from boxes to the shelves for easy access, how to front the labels so they’re easy to read in a hurry. Peter nods and he knows the kid can handle it, so he heads back out to start tearing apart Clint’s station, the radio playing all the classic rock hits Harley loves.

The phone rings, and he knows who it’s gonna be and what the news is gonna be before he lifts it and answers, but he answers anyway.

“Hey, Tony,” breathes Pepper. She knew he’d be the one pick up. “You okay at Tower? Bruce and I should stay at NXT.”

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” he tells her.

“Okay. Bruce says he’ll do money tomorrow, tell Clint and Nat and the boys?”

“I will,” Tony promises, adding it to his list. While he’s got the phone, he calls Coulson’s and Phil promises to drop him a pie in gratitude for the information. Tony accepts it- he could use a solid win tonight, and a Works Special would be the first one in hours.

The floors and bathrooms are done long before Tony’s got the bar back together, much less prepped for the next night. Thor and Steve both take a slice of the pie sitting out getting cold on the counter, but their eyes keep sliding to the clock. 

“Yeah, okay, scram, I got this,” Tony tells him. Hell shifts are just hell shifts, and they did the bulk of what they _can_ do. The rest needs someone who knows the business behind the bar. Steve can pour drinks but he’s a pitch-hitter. He expects the cherries to just _be there_ , he’s never had to dig them out of their barrels.

“Good work,” Steve tells him. Tony shrugs. They made it, that’s all he cares about.

Thor clocks out and slips out the back with Steve, both of them with the slightly hang-dog look of kids who’ve gotten out of detention on a technicality.

“How late can you stay?” Tony shouts back to Peter.

“Oh, uh, I’m not doing anything- don’t have plans,” the kid shouts back, his voice muffled by walls crammed with things.

Tony’s not looking a gift set of hands to help him in the mouth. The kid’s not a kid, he’s old enough to know how to spend his time. He feels guilty or whatever, wants to pay that back, that’s fine with Tony. He could use another win on this shitty, shitty night.

~~~

Peter wanders out and says, “I think it’s all, uh, good to go back there. I swept? And mopped?”

“Oh, thanks,” says Tony absently, wiping down and capping the last of the bottles at Clint’s station, eyeing up the sanitizer as it chugs through what is hopefully the last load.

The song slips into _Hit Me With Your Best Shot_ and the kid’s fingers tap on the bar, his head bobbing a little.

“You want to start in on those free drinks?” Tony offers, a smile pulling at his lips at how cute the kid is, standing there in his Star Wars t-shirt and dirty, scuffed tennis shoes, his threadbare jeans a little ripped- _hey, wait a minute-_

“Get over here,” he growls, and then, when Peter wanders closer, his face the picture of confusion, he grabs the kid by the waist and hauls him up to sit on the bar.

“What?” yelps the kid, his face the perfect picture of shock and fear and- and something Tony’s going to continue to ignore. “What, Tony?!”

Tony bats the kid’s hands away and fingers the _bloody rips_ in the kid’s jeans. “You’re sliced too,” he accuses the kid.

“Barely grazed,” Peter counters stubbornly, pushing Tony’s hands away ineffectually, doing little more than tangling their fingers. Tony slaps at the kid’s hands and then finally grabs the kid’s wrists in his left hand while Tony’s right hand makes the rips gape open so he can inspect the dried, bloody slashes on the kid’s pale thighs. 

“You’re a dumbass,” Tony declares gruffly. “We’re cleaning these, I can’t believe you didn’t take _three minutes_ to do this, already. That top one needs a bandaid or six.”

“It doesn’t,” insists the kid, but his voice is weird and breathless.

Tony looks up at him and then stands, frozen, because the kid looks-

He looks nothing like a kid, actually.

He looks _young_ , sure, but the way his tight t-shirt pulls across his chest and shoulders doesn’t say _child_ to Tony. It says _fresh meat_ , and actually, that’s a part of Tony’s psyche that he hates, the part that values people by their physical attractions, but he can’t- he can’t help it. It used to be all he was, and in some deep part of him, it’s still all he is. 

Peter’s eyes are wide, and he’s not fighting Tony’s grip on his wrists at all, his lips parted just the slightest bit as he looks across at Tony. 

“It does,” argues Tony smoothly, shaking the wrists because he’s not a great man, actually, and they’re alone in the bar. No one’s here to stop him, to remind him that he’s a good guy, now, a good guy who doesn’t- who wants more than just a one-night stand with a cute twink. A good guy who follows the code of the seven-year-safety-break. Who doesn’t lean over cradles to see what’s inside.

“It’s fine,” breathes Peter insistently, his jaw tightening just a little, a stubborn gleam rising in his eyes, and Tony realizes Peter’s not talking about the cuts, anymore. “I’m a grown man, I can-” his breath shifts as Tony slides closer, between his legs now, “-take care of myself,” he finishes, eyes searching Tony’s face for something.

“You shouldn’t have to,” Tony tells him, as certain of that fact as he is that rail booze and top shelf booze are both _bullshit_ that should never be ordered. Peter shouldn’t have to take care of himself, but here’s the kicker, Tony knows that _Tony_ shouldn’t be the one offering to take care of Peter.

He’s going to do it, anyway.

He can feel the certainty settle into his stomach like a hot stone, smouldering there.

If Peter offers, he’s going to take.

“You going to help?” asks Peter, into the silence that has fallen between them, his eyes still frantically flickering around Tony’s face, down to his hand, gripping Peter’s wrists, and back up.

“If you want me to,” Tony says slowly, and then, because he’s not a good man or even a fair man, at heart, in his basest places, he steps forward again, pressing into Peter’s space. Everyone on staff but Tony has their money on Peter being bisexual. Tony’s been the only hold-out, clinging to the hope that Peter’s straight. Clinging to it like Peter’s shirt clings to his shoulders, tonight, the thin fabric stretching and a few holes beginning to wear around the collar. Peter’s probably had it since high school, it’s probably his favorite, thinks Tony, his gaze on that collar while Peter breathes shallowly in the silent bar, his heartbeat hammering in the wrist Tony’s clutching. He bought it in that high-school-body-size and now it’s too tight on his grown-ass-man body, but Peter’s not willing to give up wearing it.

The silence stretches for another heartbeat until Peter breathes, “Yes. I do. I do, Tony, I-”

Tony looks up at him, feeling the smoulder in his belly explode across his vision, and Peter shrinks just a little under the force of all that tightly-controlled passion being allowed to vent.

It used to be Tony’s best trick for getting laid, the way his eyes darken and telegraph all the want inside him but the thing is, the trick was that it wasn’t a trick. Raw, honest truth, every time. Tony has always wanted every cute young thing he’s ever picked up with the exact same intensity. Every one. Every time.

“I do,” repeats Peter, licking his lips.

“Good,” says Tony gruffly. He doesn’t let go of Peter’s wrists as he reaches for a shot glass, setting it carefully on the bar beside Peter’s ripped jeans and just-peeking slashes of pale skin. He reaches with the same hand for the bottle of Jack, flipping off the cap and pouring in the same smooth motion as Peter watches, his breathing tight and his pulse racing. “Drink that,” he says, nestling the bottle back on the rack and recapping it. “Because cleaning those out’s gonna be a bitch.”

He releases Peter’s hands and watches with interest as Peter takes a shaky breath, his hand darting to lift the shot glass before looking at Tony’s face and saying hesitantly, “Don’t you- do you want-?”

“I don’t drink, Peter,” says Tony, clinging to that truth.

Peter’s face screws up in confusion. “But you always- shift shot-”

“Sure, Clint pours me something pretty, usually orange juice and grenadine, so I feel like I’m part of the crowd,” Tony tells him easily. “But I don’t- can’t believe you haven’t heard stories-”

“I have,” breathes Peter, cheeks coloring so fucking prettily, the shot held out between their chests. 

“So you know, I wasn’t always the shining example of modern citizenship and medieval chivalry that stands before you today,” quips Tony, knowing that the self-deprecation falls on deaf ears, Peter’s eyes narrowing and his mouth opening on what Tony already knows will be a protest. “I wasn’t always a good man,” Tony says forcefully, to head him off.

Peter stares at him for a long time and then says, “Glad I met you now, then,” and tips the shot back, letting the whiskey slide and burn the way Harley must have taught him, because only Harley’s stupid enough to think you drink Jack Daniels for the _flavor_.

He plays with the glass for a full second, until Tony slips it from his fingers. “Down,” he orders. “Down, and get those jeans off. We’ll take care of the scratch marks and then- then we’ll see.”

“Yeah,” breathes Peter, scooting forward on the bar, but Tony can’t bring himself to take that step back, standing still and frozen again as Peter invades _his_ space this time.

Peter’s hands are not entirely unexpected, as they creep around Tony’s shoulders, drawing him flush with Peter’s body perched on the edge of the bar. Neither is the way he tilts Tony’s head up with one hand on Tony’s chin, Tony’s eyes falling shut because, _goddamnit_ , _he’s never claimed to be a saint_ , but he doesn’t have to enthusiastically participate with this fucking _fall from grace_ that’s about to happen. 

“So,” whispers Peter slowly, the hiss of word’s syllabant loud in the air between them. “I’m going to kiss you, now.”

“I thought you might,” agrees Tony, half-hysterical and with the whole new good man half of him screaming, _no, no, no, back up, back up, what are you doing?!_

At least Peter seems to sense the gravity of this fucking travesty, pressing his lips softly- chastely- against Tony’s.

It doesn’t stay chaste for long, because Peter tastes like whiskey and bad decisions, and those are two of Tony’s favorite things, for all he’s tried to reform himself into the kind of guy that has a longer list.

Peter, it turns out, whimpers and whines when he’s turned on, and that’s been high on Tony’s list since before the kid was born, too.

Tony forgets himself, because _fuck_ , Peter’s not an amateur, he can’t be, not with the way his tongue stabs and swirls through Tony’s _fucking soul_ , his breath hitching like a goddamn porn star, and maybe this has all been a long con, except Tony’s a shitty target for a job like that. Even the best bartender in New York isn’t making the kind of money that deserves his own personal attack from a twink hooker looking for a sugar daddy, willing to devote months to the set-up. Still, he’d make it work, because _fuck_ , Peter’s little whimpering breaths are so fucking his _thing_.

Tony forgets himself, as he rubs his hands on Peter’s ass and thighs, forgets what he’s doing and who he’s doing it with and _why,_ until he strokes too close to the rips and Peter stiffens, yelping and drawing back.

“Get down from there,” growls Tony, not missing a beat, grabbing Peter by the hips and _pulling_. His hands are shaking just a little. It’s been awhile since he’s done a shit shift, much less unlocked the cage and let the beast get a sniff of something sweet. “Get down from there, and take those pants off, and let’s get that fixed.”

Peter nods, his lips and eyes both wet, and hops down, heeling out of his tennis shoes immediately. “I didn’t-” he breathes, hands hesitating on his fly. “I’m not- I’m just wearing boxers.”

“Kid, I lived through the 90s as a bisexual man, the fucking band of your Calvin Kleins has been driving me nuts for months,” Tony informs him sharply, tipping Peter’s face up to kiss him again, his lips buzzing with the flavor of Peter and poor choices the second he parts them to dip his tongue back inside.

“Oh, is that a thing?” breathes Peter, pulling back to shimmy out of the jeans. “I’m not really, like, _connected_ to the greater gay community and culture, so, I mean, that’s-”

“Shut up,” Tony tells him, kissing him again for a long minute and loving how Peter just lets the pants fall and pool at his ankles. He adds softly, “It’s totally a thing, though.”

“Okay,” breathes Peter. “I’m never wearing anything else.”

“You never have to,” Tony decides, out loud. Because yes, he’s going to be a bad man, he admits it, he’s back to his old ways, but he can add a new twist, can’t he? He already has, he already gives a shit about the kid more than just his sweet juicy bubble butt and soft eager smiles. He already knows the kid’s grades for last semester and can picture the kid stumbling out to Tony’s breakfast nook every morning. He’s already doing so much better than he ever did, before. He can balance this. He can. He doesn’t have to slide all the way. Just enough. Just enough to have Peter.

“Never?” breathes Peter, his eyes searching Tony’s face while he stands behind Tony’s fucking bar with his pants around his fucking ankles and his hands clutching onto Tony’s sleeves.

“Always,” promises Tony recklessly, to both of them. He doesn’t have to be the old Tony. He can do something new. He can try _dating_ a hot young thing, like, sequentially. On purpose. “I’m aiming for always, here, Peter.” Clinging to the hope that he can slide just a little without sliding down to the bottom of the barrel again, actually. But Peter doesn’t need to know that. The past can stay just- just stupid stories, funny now, with the filter of years over them. Funny and flattering and sometimes cautionary, but they don’t have to hurt Peter. 

“Yeah, okay, always,” agrees Peter because the kid doesn’t have a single self-preservation skill and he’d ride the goddamn subway at 3 AM if it wasn’t for Bucky and Harley offering him lifts every weekend.

Tony learns that Peter likes some pain and definitely dislikes the particular flavor of pain that is washing off the cuts and wiping alcohol wipes against them while they clean up the damage he’d done to himself, Tony’s hands confident and deft because he’s bandaged so many bar boo-boos over the years, it’s ridiculous. He knows how to make it all better, though, and the trick works, hoisting Peter back up to sit on the bar and pressing soft kisses over the bandages, making the kid whine and wiggle again. Tony’s crooked grin is a nasty, evil, satisfied, smug thing, he knows it, so he softens it just before he looks up at Peter, Peter’s fingers tangled in his hair and his mouth dropped open to let in short panting breaths of air. “Want me to kiss _that_ all better, too? Looks painful,” he offers, nodding at the erection tenting Peter’s boxer briefs.

“Please,” breathes Peter, eyes shiny like Tony’s offered him a full-ride internship at that science department he’s always babbling about. Tony grins and slides the band down, encasing Peter in his mouth and tasting that sinful sweetness, too, adding it to his list.

God, it’s been an _age_ since he’s allowed himself to devour a twink on this bar. The record streak breaks and falls to the sound of Dirty Deeds as Peter shatters apart above him, whimpering and whining, his fingers clutching so hard it’s like they’re trying to tug Tony up and off, but Tony grins. He loves it when they can’t wait, can’t handle it, _have to-_

“Tony!” yelps Peter, and that’s all the warning he can get off before he’s coming down Tony’s throat, Tony’s tongue nursing it along. 

“Oh God, Oh God,” moans Peter, his hands shaking as he releases Tony’s hair and rests them on Tony’s shoulders lightly. “Shit, I’m sorry- I- I can go longer, now, I’m- I’m sorry, Tony-”

“I’m not,” chuckles Tony, standing upright, knowing there’s an evil grin on his face and inclined to share it, leaning in to kiss that sweet mouth, sighing sadly that the taste of whisky has become so faint. “Fuck, Peter, that was perfect, I promise you,” he tells his fucking _younger lover_ , because ‘wrecked twink’ has that classless ring to it, and he’s gonna be better, with Peter. Better than he ever was with any young fling before.

Peter breathes at him, panting and wide-eyed, clearly shocked, so Tony grins, easing the band of the boxers up rather than letting it snap against Peter’s taut abs. “I want _you_ ,” Peter tells him.

“And I want you to have me,” Tony assures him. “But unlike your young adventurous ass, my ancient, experienced one prefers the full monty in my own bed, so can-I-take-you-home-tonight, Peter?”

There. Polite, honest, he’s actually doing it all different this time around. 

“Yes,” Peter tells him eagerly. “Yes, Tony, please.”

Same result, though. _Huh._ Must be the trick with the eyes.

Tony grins at Peter happily, his racing heart reminding him that he’s never done this before, never cared about the person as much as the ass, and so this is a new adventure and _fuck_ if new adventures don’t get his juices flowing.

“Are you- done- here?” asks Peter, looking around blindly.

“Yeah,” says Tony. Close enough that he’ll sleep tonight, anyway. He’ll come in early tomorrow, before anyone else on-shifts, and take care of the few details left.

“Then let’s- I _want_ you, Tony,” Peter announces, like it’s shocking to him. Tony grins and says, “Wait until you see the car I drive before you go getting all slutty, babe.”

“What do you drive?” asks Peter, following when Tony slides him off of the bar, following and slipping into his jeans, hands reckless while pulling them up, making himself flinch at the reminder of the shallow cuts scoring his thigh. The jeans are threadbare enough that they could rip with a yank like that, thinks Tony, the baser part of his brain purring with plans. Yeah. They probably would.

“You’ll see,” he teases Peter, just to draw the pout to those kissed-wet lips. “Here, one last shot for the road,” he tells Peter, pouring another whiskey.

Peter slugs it back like the pro Harley’s teaching him to be, and Tony admires the way his pale, graceful throat moves, before diving in for another bad-decision-whisky-flavored kiss.

Definitely hitting his All Time Favorites list, for when he has nights where he can’t remember why he’s a fucking bartender instead of a professor at MIT or whatever the fuck else his dad wanted him to be.

Peter can’t keep his hands off Tony as he turns everything off and sets the alarm, and then they escape into the 4 AM night, never dead, not in New York, but definitely the calmest point before the regular Friday bustle starts up again at 6AM.

Tony Stark is the best bartender in New York City, and that’s just a fact.

And tonight? He’s also the luckiest.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun, right?! I had fun, and I hope it showed.


End file.
